


should've walked away

by ClementineStarling



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Lovecraftian Monster(s), Other, Tentacle Rape, non-consentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 16:43:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20067253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: As he lies there, he realizes: It's not just a monster. A whole world is unfurling in this basement, hostile, poisonous, a world come to conquer and to spread and to breed.What happened in the basement of Brimborn Steel Works between s03e01 und s03e02.





	should've walked away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FakeCirilla9](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/gifts).

> For Ciri, because she suggested tentacle fic and I can leave no stone unturned. Thanks for the inspo. 😘  
Title from the [Cutting Crew song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ZIOkbrX_uU).

The buzz under his skin, the roar of the engine, _Head On_ blaring from the speakers – that's what life's supposed to be like, loud, exciting, bursting with energy. He's tapping the rhythm of the song onto the steering wheel as he's racing down Cherry Oak Drive. The street stretches out in front of him, a dark band in the head lights, an unknown future. He can't wait to be out of this town, out of this stifling little life. 

How right he'll be about that, in retrospect, almost clairvoyant.

But for now, his mind is still occupied with small, trivial things, meaningless footnotes in the grand scheme of things: He imagines Nancy's mom in her bathrobe, the gown falling open, the taste of her mouth, the weight of her breast in his hand. She's got nice tits, he knows that. He's had countless hours to watch her from his lifeguard chair, and even more time to fantasize about her. He can't believe he's finally close to living his dream, touch her tits, feel the sweet wet tightness of her pussy. His dick gives a twitch. Just thinking about it makes him hard. He's gonna fuck her so good. 

Joy bubbles up inside him, laughter. 

He feels good. Looks good, too, as a glance in the rear-view mirror confirms. He tries a smile, charming, flirtatious. Irresistible. Tongue flicking out to wet his lips. He laughs again, just for rehearsal this time. Practice makes perfect. 

“Hi Karen. You don't mind if I call you Karen, do you?” 

Fantasy Karen doesn't mind of course. The real one won't either. “Good,” he says and then--

BAM! 

Something has hit him, hard, nearly smashed through the windshield, and the Camaro is spinning out of control.

It's such a cliché that accidents happen in slow motion but it is true – everything goes very slow, goes very fast at the same time, and all Billy can do is to hang on to the steering wheel, foot slammed hard on the brakes, and try to prevent the worst until finally, the car skids to a halt. 

It takes Billy a moment to gather himself; he hit his head as a result of the sudden stop and it fucking hurts, but the pain is nearly drowned out by a fit of anger when he sees the damage: Spider web cracks in the glass, passenger side battered, the door dented so bad it won't open. _Fuck._

When he has a closer look, the weird, gooey substance at the point of impact makes him pause.

“What the hell?” 

Something about it feels wrong. Not just… normally wrong, but fundamentally, existentially not right. Like it's some sort of Alien spunk. Like reality is slipping away, and slipping away fast. Billy's body picks up on it before his mind catches up. His heartbeat quickens. 

A noise in the undergrowth behind him. A scuttle, a growl. Animal sounds. A shiver runs down Billy's spine. His muscles tense, his senses on high alert, he looks around. Nothing.

Something must be there. Or someone. He can _sense_ the danger.

“Who's there?” he calls out, listening to the night.

No answer.

Of course there's no answer. He's being silly. It's what you get from watching too many horror movies. His mind is playing tricks on him. There's nothing out there.

Still, he tries it again, just one last time, for good measure: “I said: who's there?”

And that's when it gets him. Grabs him by the ankle and drags him down into the bowels of Brimborn Steel Works. 

Billy's a fighter and so he struggles. Holds on to anything he can but to no avail. Whatever has him is stronger, oh so much stronger than him, and it pulls him down deep and deeper, into absolute darkness. 

_

The bare concrete is cold beneath him, the air smells like a crypt, damp, musty, something rotten underneath. His heart thumps away – fast fast fast – the jitters of panic in his guts but his bones are soft, his limbs heavy. He can't move. That thing must have gotten him good. Maybe his spine is broken. Maybe he's dying. The thought sparks a last bit of resistance. He squirms, tries to get up, but his body won't follow orders, it just lies there, useless. 

The creature must have poisoned him, paralysed him with its venom, but it hasn't attacked again. Not yet. He can hear it slithering in the shadows, waiting.

But waiting for what?

Thoughts are racing in his mind, regrets chronologically reversed. The noise in the dark should have been ample warning. The cracked windshield before, the goo, _he should have known_, even if he had not been passing by a gas station of doom and received an ominous word of advice, it's common knowledge: Horny teenagers are like beacons to monsters, especially outside the cities, where hungry creatures are prowling the night, and curiosity not only kills cats.

He should have run when he had the chance.

The world is flickering before his eyes like a television when reception is poor. Grainy. It's snowing, Billy thinks, stupidly, but how can it snow in a basement in the middle of summer? 

It must be some sort of cottonwood seed then.

Seed...

In the back of his mind realization stirs, dreadful, unspeakable.

To be killed, and possibly eaten, that's one thing, but to even think what else could be done to him…

Billy shudders. 

As he lies there, he realizes: It's not just a monster. A whole world is unfurling in this basement, hostile, poisonous, a world come to conquer and to spread and to breed. 

He's suddenly certain what fate awaits him, as if the airborne seed had already instilled that knowledge in him, had settled inside him all along, breath after breath, incessant, unnoticed.

And then, out of the dark, an appendage (arm–leg–feeler–tentacle) reaches out for him, not for his legs or his arms but for his face; a sucker, a maw fastens on it, slick and cold and alien, and he wants to scream and scream and scream but he can't, something thick and slimy is forced into his mouth and down his throat, and he can't breathe and then everything goes black as night closes around him.

_

There's a storm in the skies, red and blue, colours like bruises, space convulsing, alive. 

This world is sentient, Billy understands that now, a violent dimension, relentless, hungry. If it continues to grow here, it will eat itself up, will turn itself inside out and swallow and swallow until it has devoured itself. It has grown fat in here, but now it needs more.

Like every parasite that's battened on its host, it eventually needs a new one. 

That's why he's here. 

He has been chosen because he's pretty and strong and clever, and because _it_ needs an ambassador, an envoy to his world– 

It's almost flattering.

Y O U A R E P E R F E C T , the monster croons. No one ever understood him like it does. No one ever understood what he needs. But they're connected now, and Billy doesn't have to worry anymore. He is part of something bigger now, something worthwhile. 

The tentacle-thing is still in his mouth, in his throat, slimy and vile, and there's nothing he can do about it.

S O P R E T T Y . . . , it says while it pumps its spunk down his throat, the most romantic kind of rape, the sort that subdues and charms and befuddles. 

And befuddled, Billy swallows around the intrusion, half willing to receive the creature's spendings. He's already got drunk on its seed, lips stretched wide, gullet prised open. The alien liquid turns to heat in his stomach; his skin is buzzing again, his blood boiling; his cock stiffens. 

T H A T ' S I T S W E E T , P R E T T Y B O Y . 

He can't help the reaction, it's involuntary; he's aroused by the slimy monster and how much it adores him, his smooth skin and firm muscle and gorgeous face. Billy can see himself through its many eyes, a golden boy, so beautiful, so unlike itself. 

Indeed perfect, and it wants to test its new minion, its new tool, so it strips the clothes off him and begins to touch him for real. It strokes every inch of bare flesh, the tender insides of his thighs, the vulnerable hollow of his stomach, the velvety skin of his balls. Billy realizes what it thinks: humans are so easily broken, but it does not intend to break him, it wants to play him like an instrument, it wants to play with him like a toy.

An appendix slithers between his legs, gently almost, affectionate, probing the pink knot of his hole, nudging against the twitching muscle, and then it slips inside, and Billy gasps around the tentacle still fucking his mouth, in and out, a parody of love making. He's so full, too full – it should hurt, but all he feels is an ache for more, to be pierced and filled and stuffed, and then the thing is touching his cock, too, wraps another limb around the silky shaft and pulls and Billy almost comes apart then and there.

The violation is glorious, is perfect, intoxicating. They both know there's something familiar to this, abuse disguised as affection, but it doesn't matter anymore. All that matters are the sensations spreading through him, spreading through his body and his soul and through the vast mind of the creature that holds him, that fondles his balls while it strokes his cock, up and down and up. Sparks of pleasure glitter on the dull throbbing of arousal like lightning in a storm. 

They're one now. _It_ can feel what Billy feels. 

D E L I G H T F U L .

Pleasure, star-bright and dull at the same time, so close to pain, and so close to bliss, the pressure, unbearable as he is strung to breaking point, impaled by huge, thick, slick tentacles oozing poison. They push into him, pull out, push in again, stretching him wide, sending ripples through is body. His thighs tremble, his skin is clammy, too tight, his cock flushed and dripping as the appendage is gliding along its length, faster and faster, and tighter too, the slime hardly enough lubrication. It begins to hurt, slightly at first, then uncomfortably, then intolerably. It feels like being flayed alive, his dick is raw, sore.

_It's too much it's too much it's too much_, but the creature doesn't care.

Y E S S S , it hisses and doesn't stop, but pulls and tears at him – peels him open, dissects him into trembling pieces of twitching flesh until there's nothing but sensations and agony; caustic seed is pumped into him; it fills him up with that awful spunk, and it burns and burns, until it doesn't. He is aware it's only a trick on his mind but he's not in control anymore. He is part of this thing now, and it has flicked a switch, and what he feels is every bit as real as reality. 

His muscles contract, his hole clamps down on the tentacle battering his prostate, his balls tighten, his cock twitches. For a second he stares into the endless void of space, no sound, no gravity, and then time stumbles on. A flare of pleasure surges through him, sharp-edged at first, glass shards and spasms, then liquid, and mellow, and dark as oblivion.

He comes, hard, his whole body trembling, his cock spurting white slick seed over his stomach while his hole flutters violently around the fat tentacle in his ass. He comes so hard, he must have passed out.

_

Space is black and cold and endless. Twirling nebula, galaxies entangled, dimensions twisting into each other. 

There are so many worlds out there, dead worlds, and worlds brimming with life, and worlds plundered and ravaged, each one separated from the other by nothing but a thin membrane, which can be torn open and then, oh then…

Billy is hungry, so very hungry it feels like starving. His stomach is a black hole, greedy, insatiable. He could pick the stars from the sky and devour them, gobble down whole civilizations like he (_it_) used to, once, when the Old Ones were still young and the multiverses their orchard…

C O M E A N D S E E , he hears the voice of the creature say, and so he does.

_

He comes to with a jolt – the horror spat him back out, hissing behind him in the deep. Instinct kicks in at once; he scrambles to his feet. He's still dazed, the nightmare lingering like cobwebs around his thoughts, sticky, hard to shake, but panic is a powerful force, it drives him on as he stumbles outside, it makes him run as fast as his clumsy feet will carry him. Just out, out. 

The air outside is warm, humid, alive, so unlike the dead cold of space. 

It's still behind him, Billy can feel it, the back of his neck is prickling, but it doesn't get him. He reaches his car, yanks open the door. Inside normalcy awaits, safety. 

_What the fuck what the fuck_, is the first thought that flits through his mind once he's made it into the driver's seat and turned on the engine. 

He's on autopilot, doesn't think about where he's going until he sees the public phone at the road side. He has to tell them what's down there, lurking in the old steel mill, biding its time, he's gotta warn them before it's too late. Before someone else falls prey to it. He simply has to.

~


End file.
